ERIC CONNOR.

ITALY.

꘎♡━━━━━━━♡꘎

The lab light is cold — almost cutting — and the air smells of cheap antiseptic and rusted metal. I'm sitting in front of a stainless steel table, surrounded by test tubes and blood plates caked with dried clots. My hands are covered in worn, yellowish latex gloves from constant use. My left arm is pinned to my body in an awkward, immobilized position. The dull pain beneath the bandage reminds me every second that I’m not in control — not of my space, not of my time, not even of my own body.

It’s been two weeks since Aaron decided it was a good idea to break my arm as part of his “reminders.” But I didn’t do anything wrong — just existed in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"You don't like your stay? Or maybe something specific bothers you?" he asks with fake kindness.

I don’t even look up. I slide one hand across a sample, slowly rotating the slide under the microscope lens. His false paternal tone irritates me — every word feels like a tighteni